If the World was Black
by scelerus animus
Summary: Every time L tells Light he's Kira, it should frighten Light that he almost begins to believe it. It should, but sometimes, it doesn't. vague Light/L.


Author Notes: Written in 2007. I like playing with obsessive!Light.

**disclaimer:** disclaim'd

**characters/pairings:** L/Light

**spoilers:** through chapter 58 or episode 25

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**If the World was Black**  
by scelerus animus

**- o -**

_If I was Kira, _Light thinks, and an odd smile stretches disturbingly across his lips.

Perhaps Light is particularly lucky that L presently sleeps utterly unawares and unable to scrutinize that venomously precarious smile curving Light's lips and that malicious, predatory gleam in his eyes.

Perhaps he should be thankful, but Light does not deal with chances, instead deducing by logic and cold calculation.

And since five consecutive days without sleep has finally overcome the infallible detective L, Light is at the advantage. Certainly, Light's insanity-tinged grin would have augmented L's calculated percentage of Light's guilt quite a bit _(Light can easily imagine it, L staring innocently at him with his large creep eyes and thumb between his teeth—"Seventy-eight percent, Yagami-kun")_, and that inevitably would have irritated Light—not immensely so, but just enough.

_(and just enough makes all the difference__—__just enough proof, just enough evidence, and Light would be forced to believe__—__)_

Thus, as such, with unsurprising similarity to the genius detective, Light has never depended on fickle luck, only his own crafted skill and refined knowledge _(and perhaps the weathered experience of Chief Yagami Seichirou, because he is his father after all)_, and, as Light is forced to admit sometimes, L's own astute conclusions _(far more true and far more fascinating than his father, a twisted mind game that inevitably commands Light's attention as much as Kira himself)_, and of course—

—_Justice—_

Though Light cannot ignore that for all his Justice, L still unwaveringly believes in his obsessive compulsive, deduce-by-logic manner—which ultimately intrigues Light as much as it vexes him—that Light is Kira.

_(and it should frighten Light that sometimes he begins to believe it himself)_

Nevertheless, at present, these thoughts flitter through Light's mind uselessly like phantom butterflies dulled wispy white and translucent by the silvery slivers of a waning moon and the strangled, wayward notion embedded inexplicably into his mind, the capricious idea that has caused that manic smile and insidious gleam.

Light absorbedly watches the sleeping detective _(chest obscured by gangly, folded legs and white threadbare t-shirt, rising and falling with each poignant breath, blood flowing with each soft exhale and inhale, heart beating, beating like a ritualistic drum and pounding in Light's ears like some inert calling that should frighten him if it didn't thrill him so fucking much)_ and he earnestly thinks, _If I was Kira—_

As the detective sleeps, Light notes how much like Death L already looks, all sickly white skin and awkward jutting bones. Vicarious shadows slither across his face, lurid omens of a black, black future, these monotone shades that crudely highlight L's skeletal features.

Black, black circles morbidly underline closed eyes _(wide and inquisitive when awake)_ and horridly accentuate his gaunt cheekbones. There is an uncaring kind of hollowness in his pallid features that only L can desperately exude, and it should frighten Light that he is thrilled almost as much as he is concerned by the insomnia grossly understated in those black, black lines.

_(after all, only the dead have no need for sleep—the dead and the shinigami)_

Previously Light merely attributed L's blatant sleeplessness to the countless all-nighters and determination by which L _(and he as well, yes, of course)_ live to capture Kira.

_But it's not,_ some detached wicked part of Light's mind declares with gleeful exuberance, and it should frighten Light that this taunting whisper periodically beckons at the remote corners of his mind with cold inhuman laughter, almost as if there is a whole other person that surreptitiously resides in Light's mind who insistently claws at the inside of his throbbing skull, searching for an exit.

_(scratchscratchscratch, like a pen feverishly scribbling over white notebook paper) _

But it is late into the black-abyss night, and the shadows writhe like hungry snakes with life. While—as all humans must—L sleeps to maintain his full prodigal ability of conducive reasoning, Light mutely reflects with another twisted stretch of viciously smiling lips,_ You don't sleep well at night with me near you, do you Ryuuzaki? That's alright, however, since—_

Slowly Light lifts the hand without the chain, and there is only a brief, calculated moment of hesitation before he lightly rests one slender finger _(nail, polished and manicure-perfect quite unlike L's nails, bitten and uneven)_ against L's deathly pale cheekbone, lazily following the salient curve, idly mesmerizing the deep hollows beneath those black, black _(death)_-rimmed eyes. L's skin is warm, and this proves that he is quite alive despite how much like _Death_ he may look.

Light thinks, _If I was Kira—_

And he leans close _(too close for you, isn't it Ryuuzaki?)_, neatly tousled honey brown locks meshing with untidy bangs of greasy black, and though there is a distinctive if not subtle deviation in the way L breathes, _( a shallower exhale, the beating of that thriving heart increasing, and you don't dare open your eyes, do you Ryuuzaki?_), Light's virulent smile merely widens as he tenderly murmurs against L's motionless lips, "If I was Kira, Ryuuzaki, you'd already be dead."

_­– Owari –_

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_End Notes: Thoughts?


End file.
